


All of your pieces

by tmrs



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmrs/pseuds/tmrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there was any possible way of not falling in love with Marco Reus, fuck, Mario Götze didn't know how it could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All of your pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madanach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/gifts).



> Soooooo I had this draft saved in the middle of my short stories and didn't really fit anywhere then I saw this prompt http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/31896.html?thread=606872#t606872 on ficathon and rewrited. That's the results.  
> (look what you made me do Maddi, really)

 

It’s the carefree way Marco acts, Mario thinks at first.

 

  

Or the way Marco can’t be a normal guy and grab the back of a shirt collar to pull it off by the head but has to hold the hem of it and tuck the elbows inside, stretching all the fabric until he can take it off his head to get rid of it. How the upper and bottom part of his body moves in opposite directions while he howls of laughter when Mario reveals that actually, the right answer of _who-is-the-sluttiest-fish-in-the-sea?_ would be _a blowfish_ and they are the only two left in the training camp at the end of 2009 under Istanbul peach sky and it’s not even that funny, but he still making that weird noise so Mario feels good enough. Perhaps is how after three years nothings change, the right corner of Marco’s mouth still easy to tease and how that very curve is where his fortune and doom intertwine in tender spiral laces on a perpetual dance.

  

 

_(Marco’s right eye always close half second before the left one when he grins like he knew and every time it happens Mario understands why people say our ribs are cages)_

  

 

It could be how Marco cheer for everybody on victories and praise every single one with gratitude but took the defeats too personally as if he had lost by himself many times hurling whatever is at hand on the ground, throwing his entire body around like an angry children in a second and simple grabbing it back like nothing had happen the second after. It could be the way Marco use to nibble his own lips when too focused on something, can’t stop touching the face when feels shy or how his fingers drummed the same sequence against the steering wheel every two or three red lights. How Marco gets annoyed when people mispronounce certain word and draws random figures when is distracted with any piece of paper and a pen at hand.

 

  

_(somehow Mario notice one of them is always a smiling the sun)_

 

  

It might be the way Marco’s bottom lip is the first to touch the bottle of beer at the balcony of his flat where they can see the yellow bars from Signal Iduna Park and his head moves slightly behind even when all it takes for the liquid reach the tip of his tongue is a gentle swing of the wrist, how they are glistening with moisten leftovers once the bottle is down again.

 

 

  _(Marco blows the mist forming on the black surface of the hot coffee in the morning after until the border of ceramic touches his spout, the shoulders lightly hunched, hazy eyes and frail marks from the folds of sheets across an arm and the bare chest)_

 

 

 Maybe it’s the way he get shivers when Mario kiss that secret spot behind his right ear making small bumps spread automatically all over the skin like fire, how the muscles of his abdomen contract under Mario’s palm and how he holds the breath for a second when his finger cross the elastic of the light blue lucky boxer.

 

  

_(Marco mixes up the words and leave sentence unfinished as gets closer and closer to the peak and pronounces the syllables of Mario’s name like it came from somewhere deep in his chest and it sounds like a divine prayer, like sweet poetry: Mah-rih-oh)_

 

  

Could be how is to wake up next to Marco’s pale body mildly bathed by sunlight through the _ok-ok-they-are-lavender-ice-and-not-gray_ cotton curtains, the way his hair isn’t styled up and there’s absolute nothing but the softness of the locks falling against his relaxed forehead like a teenager fringe, the small marks in the shape of Mario’s teeth above his collarbone where everything feels uncomplicated and the privilege to feel happy like that forever seems only fair, not a damn stigma.

 

  

_(and how is to quietly trace the lines of his tattoo with fingertips before getting ready for training, follow the ink path remembering once again that the-biggest-adventure-you-can-take-in-life-is-to-live-your-dreams as they were doing outside and inside those definitely-not-cream walls)_

 

  

Maybe it’s because Marco was the type of friend who wouldn't say how stupid’s your idea but jumps on it with you and that he would do it not only for Mario but for any friend. How talking to him is a never ending amusement, how he knows so much about so many things and is so full of new surprises, the way he winked at Mario on the bus to Esprit Arena nine weeks ago when André rolled the eyes asking for heaven’s sake how is even possible that two people could maintain so many different conversations at once with each other.

 

 

  _(Marco leans closer on the percuss back to the hotel with a silent invitation for Mario to rest the head on his shoulder and the natural way their hands found each other so easily under the center table while the raindrops pitter-patter the window)_

 

 

 There’s also a chance of be how even ordinary everyday things around Marco became something else because he simply understands that hand towels should not be hang were bath towels do like Fabian insisted to put when they moved to Munich, Marco plainly understands that you don’t need to keep moving your thumb against the back of someone’s hand while you’re holding it because it’s good to just lace the fingers together.

 

  

_(Marco gets that there's nothing wrong with start eating a sandwich from the corners to the middle or potato chips with tuna salad or dry ramen noodles and it's not that messed up that sometimes when Mario wakes up 4AM to pee he has to sit on the toilet because still dangerously half asleep to do it standing)_

 

  

It could be how Marco is strong to deal with things better than his stubborn head would ever deal because should have been his body in Mario's hands and not just his jersey on that July in Brazil, the right of kiss his golden wet eyelashes and cry on the crook of his neck repeating vows in that moment where a gap would be open in time and forever wouldn't be just a hopeless dream, when things were fated to be immortalized, was taken away from them in a matter of seconds. Or it's something about the way Marco looked so peaceful last year when they were sailing somewhere above the waters of Ibiza, he sat outside of the boat at night, without a shirt but still wearing that necklace against the scarce hair chest while his fingers shyly played with the guitar strings and he hums a song.

 

 

_(Marco could be extremely corny whispering cheesy things against every inch of Mario's skin when everything is quiet but the sound of waves gently rocking the boat and the moon promises to keep their secrets)_

 

  

Perhaps is the way Marco shows up in his door step where he had left him inbetween shattered glass two nights before, now with a new table lamp and a few Brinkhoffs to talk about his plans for the future in Munich and how he sighs pulling Mario to a hug after all because pushing the pain aside Marco knew deep down some things isn't about clenching and possessing but about embracing, not gripping tight but holding gently to nurture, maybe it's how that moment meant what _nevertheless_ probably do. It might be because meeting Marco after being so many months apart was like reading a book he knew by heart again and again only to discover a new favorite line every time.

 

_(the thrill of rediscovering Marco's dots and the curve of his letters, pure magic without any trace of stains, covered of side notes, the familiar smell igniting a spark)  
_

  

Maybe he will never know, maybe Mario knew all along because before him he never believed in any poems that rhymes and sentimental clichés but the answer to every question was in all of his pieces, in every atom formed of millenary stardust and will remain attracting his own even after the world no longer exist.

 

  

_(because that's all they seem to do anyway, instinctively founding and recognizing and gravitating around the other, like it all had started many centuries ago...)_

**Author's Note:**

> The thing is: I have feels from basically anything related to this two so idek if it's that's good but I had to post anyway. Thank you for reading x


End file.
